


Happy Birthday, Mr. Dylan

by britishshoe



Category: classic rock - Fandom
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-25
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-06-10 14:41:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,550
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6961123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/britishshoe/pseuds/britishshoe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who wouldn't wanna work 1975 Bob's birthday party?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Happy Birthday, Mr. Dylan

**Author's Note:**

> i'm posting like an hour too late but i wrote this one shot/imagine for bob's birthday thanks

This clearly wasn't your first rodeo. His, on the other hand? Debatable. Sure, most people aren't prepared for you to jump out of their birthday cake, but the curly headed man before you looked all but mortified. Two men split the large prop at its hinges so you could step out and kiss the birthday boy on his cheek. He smiled at you politely if not sheepishly and punched his friend next to him.

"Come on, Bobby, you only turn 34 once!" The friend says, rubbing the sore spot on his bicep. You make sure someone's snapped a picture and that you've thouroughly embarrassed the guy before giving him a break. For the most part your job is done and you convene with the party presenter outside the door. You exchange pleasantries before splitting up and beginning the wrap-up of your night. You get half way down the main hallway and retrieve your coat from a hook outside before you hear a small voice behind you.

"Hey, uh, I'm sorry you had to do that," it says and you turn to see that familiar birthday boy on your heels.

"It's my job, man," you respond lightly, trying not to catch offense at the comment.

"Yeah, right, of course. I just- yeah I'm sorry, have a good night!" He turns fuchsia before you, clearly embarrassed again. Before he can shoot down the hallway you grab his wrist, pulling him back toward you.

"I'm sorry I embarrassed you," this makes his face even pinker, nearly radiating a nervous heat. "That's my job too." This causes a grin to bloom on his face as he finally makes eye contact with you. You notice his features for the first time, and the guy is actually pretty handsome. You exchange names as he awkwardly takes your hand, not sure if to shake it or to kiss it. He ends up just patting the back of it with his other palm before releasing it.

"Do you wanna... come back to the party?" he asks as he slides his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

"I charge by the hour," you respond dryly, inciting a look of shock on his face.

"Oh, I, uh-"

"I'm fucking with you." Another smile adorns his face and he motions for you to follow him back down the hallway. You take note of his white dress shirt and grey vest, topping of those slim cut aforementioned jeans and a pair of boots. The look contrasts pretty greatly with your busty show dress and you decide to pull your jacket around and tie it in the front. The only other noticeable contrast is your height difference. Bob is pretty small, and you notice that he stands a couple inches shorter than you. You smile at this as he grabs your hand and pulls you back into the main room. By now the large group of people has been given a minimum of thirty minutes, and took the time to get drunk. You know the people are wealthy and famous, but you try not to let the concept get to you. There's an unfamiliar hand in the small of your back as Bob now guides you to a sofa to sit. He runs to grab two glasses of something, anything, as you lean back against the cushions. A cork flies from somewhere unknown through the room and moments later Bob is carrying two sloshing glasses of champagne through the crowd. Nothing can stop you from giggling at the sight of him raising his arms straight up in the air trying to protect the golden liquid from his drunken friends and crew.

"Fuckin' Christ," he yells as he finally breaks free from the mass and sits down next to you. He hands you the long stemmed glass and you open your mouth to speak before one of the more intoxicated roadies stops by.

"Bob fuckin' Dylan! Happy birthday, man!" they shout and Bob nearly winces at the spectacle but gives his thanks anyway. The crowd consumes the lone partier once again and you turn to your company with a laugh.

"Cheers, Mr. Dylan," you joke as you clink your glass to his. He smirks and looks at you through hooded eyes.

"Please, call me Bob," he says with faux pretension. "Mr. Dylan sounds so- _professional_." You chuckle at his joking tone and take a sip from your champagne. He loosens up fairly quickly and begins to ask you about your interests, particularly musical. You have a bonding moment over Joni and he tells you she's around here somewhere if you want to meet her, but 'around here' is a pretty large space nearly full of bodies, so you decide against it. Eventually the crowd pushes you and Bob back into the hallway, and you take a stroll around the building.  
"There's not a huge amount of space aside from the auditorium," Bob says as he walks you into the room, vaulted ceilings and angled seating engulfing you.  
"Man, you get to perform in places like this?" You ask as he watches the side of your face intently.  
"Almost every night," the words come out through the smile that's curled up on his face. You turn to face him and return his grin.  
"What?"  
"Just watchin' your face."  
"Somethin' funny about my face?"  
"Well..."  
You scowl at him and he giggles like a schoolboy, making his way down the steps. He sits about eight rows back, patting the seat next to him. You take your sweet ass time getting down there, and he taps the invisible watch on his wrist.  
"Seat's gettin' cold," he drawls in his Minnesota accent and you smile at the familiar Midwest tone.  
"I'm comin', I'm comin'" you say as your descent becomes quicker and you arrive at the row. "Excuse me is that seat taken?"  
He smiles and stands up for you to scoot in movie theater style, and you begin in facing him, sliding against his body. A small sound rises from the bottom of his throat and you look up to make eye contact with him just as he grabs the back of your head and presses his lips to yours. His other hand works dexterously to untie the front of your jacket and toss it to the side. The floor is at an incline, and you have to push him down into his chair to get leverage. You tangle your hands in his hair and beg silently for him to open his mouth, getting your wish as your tilt his chin up toward you. Your head comes up for air before moving down to nip at the soft skin below Bob's chin.

"Shit, you move fast," Bob moans into the air and you remove your mouth from his neck.

"Well we can slow down," you say as you calmly grind down against his erection, causing him to release a whimper.

"Now I didn't mean-" he struggles as you palm him firmly through the denim.

"You can't have your cake and eat it too, Mr. Dylan," you retort, working at the buckle on his belt. Any further fusses he planned to make became muffled moans as you reconnect your mouths. His hands roam over your sides as you slip your hand into his pants to stroke him. You only allow this contact for a moment before moving your hands to unbutton his shirt.

"Oh, come on!" he protests at the loss of friction.

"Shut up and unzip this dress."

He eagerly obliges to getting this show on the road and throws the garment on the floor before fondling your breasts. His warm mouth starts to create hickies on them and you lose sight of slow and steady winning the race. You pull your underwear to the side and grab his length, positioning it at your entrance. He sighs in relief as you sink onto him, throwing your head back. You roll your hips up slowly as you get a feel for his body, breathing heavily into his neck. Bob moves his hands and digs his fingers into your hip flexors as he begins to thrust up into you. In turn, your fingers on one hand tangle into his hair while the other uses the arm of the auditorium chair for stability. You pull him tightly against you and feel his nose rubbing against your collarbone while he kisses your chest. His name finds its way past your lips and he groans against your skin. "Fuck." You feel your body growing tense and whimper into the mass of curls beneath your chin, alerting Bob your climax is near. He whispers into your ear to come for him, and you do just that, whining loud enough to create an echo. He's close behind, groaning roughly into your neck. His grip on your hips loosens and you climb off of him and pick your dress up, suddenly very aware of the open space. Bob hikes his pants up and helps you zip up before moving to face you. He gives you one of those goofy smiles again, a bit flushed more from the activity than nerves. You lean in and kiss his cheek for the second time tonight, and whisper into his ear while you're there, "Happy birthday, Mr. Dylan."

 


End file.
